


Let Me Go On

by nymphologist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Discussions of gender, M/M, Non-binary character, Pining, UST/URT, flagrant misuse of powers, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 06:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19847788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymphologist/pseuds/nymphologist
Summary: The End Of The World came and went. They survived against all odds. This left Aziraphale feeling like maybe he didn't have to be so restrained in his usage of miracles. Crowley disagrees.





	Let Me Go On

**Author's Note:**

> Just take it.  
> This was a warm-up piece to try and get acclimated to writing again after ages and to start getting ahold of these characters voices, especially Aziraphale's. I don't own or profit off of Good Omens or any affiliated media, personalities, musicians, or brands mentioned within the confines of this story. Title and chapter titles from the Violent Femmes song Blister In The Sun. I think Crowley would probably enjoy them. I know I do.

**A.Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop,** **London**

**7 Months Post “End Of The World”**

Aziraphale surveyed his demonic companion sitting before him with a critical eye and took in every detail, as he was wont to do whenever Crowley was involved with anything whatsoever. He looked far more tired than Aziraphale had seen in decades. He was disheveled, unkempt, and looked ridiculous in bright pink sweatpants and a loud royal blue polo shirt. As he stepped around to stand behind Crowley he reached forward and pulled the small band out of his hair to release the downright pathetic excuse of a ponytail adorning his head.

Aziraphale fingered the red, jagged ends of his companion’s hair, eliciting from him a technically unnecessary yet still instinctual intake of breath as his cuff brushed against the sensitive skin of his nape. Crowley’s red hair, held gently between Aziraphale’s pale fingers, slipped as he released his grip and fell softly against his neck. Soft pink blossomed at the edge of Crowley’s collar, and from the angle that Aziraphale stood behind him, he could also see the warmth creep slowly up and across his jaw. He could practically feel it himself as that heat settled atop Crowley’s scalp and kissed at his hairline. Or, perhaps, that’s only what Aziraphale wished* Crowley would feel.

> *Although being an avid reader and consumer of fiction, imagination was generally more within Crowley’s wheelhouse than his own. Even after the millennia of acquaintanceship, the past century of closer friendship, and the last decade and change of…something more…Aziraphale still found himself reluctant to imagine, let alone wish.

In the few moments of weakness where he allowed himself to indulge in thinking that could only be labeled wistful and wishful, the one daydream he came back to was this: he and Crowley, sitting happily together sharing a meal, laughter, memories, and small touches with every barrier between them conspicuously absent. While the details of location and level of intimacy evolved in this dream of his over the years the core desires remained stationary. Ever since the day where they had played their small part in thwarting the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, that daydream has been close to a complete reality.

Because the two of them existed in a sort of political limbo while awaiting Heaven and Hell’s next attempt at either getting them to fall back into their respective party lines, or, and this situation was far more likely, determining the next best way of eliminating them from all planes of reality and existence entirely, they had their reprieve that Aziraphale had been so desperately and secretly dreaming of for ages.

But Crowley still had barriers up, even if they had softened, and if Aziraphale were being completely honest with himself…he did too. He was afraid of shifting the one somewhat stable relationship in his immortal life just a little too far too the left and knocking it entirely off the metaphorical table and watching it shatter as it hit the ground.

Aziraphale knew what he had been told. He “knew” what everyone “knew”: Demons are incapable of feeling love.

“ _That’s why they’re_ like _that_ ” Gabriel had told him with a tight and professional smile, booking no room for contention, the one and only time Aziraphale had made the mistake of asking if _maybe_ there were demons that _could_ love. Even though demonic love was common knowledge as an oxymoron, Aziraphale still had his doubts*.

> *Not Doubts, capital, because if nothing else were true the strength of his Faith in the Ineffable Plan was unquestionable, even now. For, if She has Planned for everything then surely his feelings, too, were Planned from the start.

With another quick glance at the uncharacteristically disheveled state of Crowley’s hair Aziraphale stepped out from the back of his chair and extended a mug of steaming cocoa that he pulled from the ether in offering.

Crowley grimaced at the proffered mug overladen with marshmallows and grunted something so quiet and indiscernible it could have been either a statement of gratitude or a curse. He brought his mug occupied hand up to his lips and paused to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, ensuring that his eyes were fully obscured before quipping,

“ _Out of wine, are we_ ”?

“ _No need to get snippy, dear boy. Take a sip_ ” was Aziraphale’s simple answer.

Tipping the liquid back past his lips in one deep gulp, Crowley spluttered and coughed before crying out,

_“Bless it, Angel! What are you trying to do, sanitize me from the inside out? There’s enough alcohol in this mug to fuel the Bentley on a trip round the whole country_ ”.

“ _What exactly are_ you _trying to do here, dear boy_ ”, Aziraphale interjected, not even attempting to mask the judgement in his tone, as he removed the spiked mug from Crowley’s hand and miraculously refilled it for himself.

“ _To what do you refer, Aziraphale? I can’t read minds. Besides everything is normal here, yes sir, nothing different or strange at all_ ”.

Crowley was nervous, that much Aziraphale could see plainly, even with his eyes obscured by sunglasses. His body was tight, and he seemed coiled, as if he were one uncomfortable word away from leaping up and pacing the length of the flat simply to release his pent-up frenetic energy. He bounced his leg and couldn’t seem to decide what to do with his long arms, alternating between folding them against his chest and gripping the armrests of his chair.

Drinking deeply from their shared mug, Aziraphale finished the cocoa, which really was more liquor than chocolate at this point. He set the mug down on the coffee table between them atop a particularly garish coaster featuring the face of some dark-haired female bebop singer* that Crowley had “gifted” to him several weeks prior.

> *The genre of music that the singer’s face belonged to was not, in fact, bebop, but rather rock. The coaster features the disembodied head of American rock singer, songwriter, and composer Joan Jett over a headache-inducing neon yellow background that collects more moisture than it repels. Crowley claimed that functionally useless novelty coasters were one of his ideas. While certainly tacky and a bit annoying, Aziraphale had been unable to parse exactly how this was a Hellish feat and he refused to ask for clarification from Crowley on principal. That, and he truly didn’t care. He only kept the blasted thing around because it was a gift and he caught a small smile on Crowley’s face when he realized that Aziraphale hadn’t tossed it out.

With a glance, Aziraphale refilled the white-winged mug, sans marshmallows, milk, and chocolate. It was now just a receptacle containing deep amber liquid sitting between them, void of pretense. It was broken down to its base intention: to get them drunk, gracelessly and quickly.

Aziraphale sighed in frustration then, deciding that this conversation, like all the important ones that have come before, would be difficult and require a gentle, Angelic touch.

“ _I’m talking about your appearance, Crowley. Your hair. Your clothes. What’s wrong with you lately_ ”?

Oh, well.

So much for using a gentle touch.

When Crowley stilled his leg’s bouncing, Aziraphale knew he had made a mistake.

“ _What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong’ with me, Aziraphale? What’s wrong with you? You’re just…_ ”

Crowley trailed off and then all at once sprung to his feet, took one step with long legs to close the distance between them that would have taken Aziraphale three. Exasperated, he threw out his hand and gestured gat the mug between them, the one which had held what once was spiked cocoa and now was just the spike. Aziraphale could see the slight remains of sticky residue from the marshmallow on the heel of Crowley’s hand, just below the juncture of his thumb and pointer finger. He was immediately caught by the desire to grab his hand and lick it off him, or to bring that small space of flesh between his lips and _suck_.

“ _Angel_ ”!

Aziraphale blinked back to attention at the title and lowered his hand, which had, seemingly of its own volition, begun reaching out in an aborted attempt at grasping Crowley’s. The Demon that tantalizing appendage was attached to stood above him with double raised eyebrows, the look on his bespectacled face a tie between bewildered and expectant.

“ _Sorry, dear, what was that you were saying_ ”?

Crowley groaned and stuck the marshmallow tainted hand in his hair and pulled. Realizing immediately what he had done, he yanked his hand back and groaned, but the damage was done. The sticky, melted gelatin and sugar was firmly set in his overgrown fringe. Which, in Aziraphale’s opinion, shouldn’t even be an issue. He waited a moment for Crowley to miracle away the mess, and when he didn’t Aziraphale tutted.

“ _Really now, Crowley, it’s just a marshmallow. Nothing to get so worked up about_ ”.

As Aziraphale began to raise his hand again, this time to miracle his companion’s hair clean (and perhaps also freshly cut and styled since _clearly_ Crowley was having some performance issues with his miracles), Crowley’s hand shot out and gripped Aziraphale’s wrist tightly. He looked Aziraphale in the eye, as much as he could with dark lenses, and emphatically shook his head _no_.

“ _Angel—Aziraphale—we need to have a talk, I think. About…_ ” Crowley paused, _“…about you overdoing it on the miracles_ ”.

The second half of his statement came out in a rushed whisper, as if he were afraid that simply by uttering those words, he would invoke not only Aziraphale’s Holy retribution but also that of Heaven itself. Crowley released his wrist gently and sat down on the couch beside him, not making eye contact with Aziraphale but rather the abandoned mug before them.

Aziraphale remained silent, allowing Crowley the space to speak his mind.

_“You’ve been worrying me, lately. And you know how much I hate worrying, or really even thinking about anything unpleasant whatsoever. It’s not fun! We saved the world, Angel, we should be having fun! But_ ,” at this, Crowley diverted his attention from the coffee table and turned instead toward the Angel beside him.

“But _. You’re being reckless and for_ no reason _. We won this break because you’re such a clever, clever bastard and deciphered that Nutter’s prophecy_ ”.

Aziraphale chimed weakly in with “ _Because you came up with the plan for us to switch corporeal forms, Crowley. That’s what saved us, not my ability to understand Agnes Nutter’s prophetic scrap. Your idea is what allowed us to survive that whole ordeal_ ”.

He patted the top of Crowley’s fisted hand beside him on the couch, as if to say “Buck up, Crowley!” before refolding it on his lap.

“ _Yes, okay, fine, we’re both bloody brilliant and saved each other, fine, we can agree on that but don’t try and distract me from the matter at hand with_ semantics _, you, you glorified_ librarian”.

Crowley stopped, raised both hands in front of him, palms out placatingly.

“ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Aziraphale I am worried about you, though. You’re using miracles for absolutely everything, even when you don’t need to! You’re the one who has always been—been, well, not like this! I’m the one who is ‘willy-nilly’ with miracles and even I know that we should be more careful than before._

_Why are you putting yourself at risk like this? Why are you risking…”_

Aziraphale heard the unspoken “us” even though Crowley seemed to think better of uttering it.

Instead of answering Crowley’s uncharacteristically earnest question, Aziraphale responded with his own, a teasing smile on his lips.

“ _Is that why you’re letting yourself go, Crowley? Because you’re concerned about Hell having something to say about the powerful demon that can splash around in a bathtub full of Holy water miracling marshmallow out of his hair_ ”?

This caused Crowley to scowl.

“ _No, Angel,_ ” this he drawled sarcastically as if the endearment had curdled into a curse between his teeth, “ _I’ve ‘let myself go’ because I don’t want to give Hell_ or _Heaven any reason to come and try to break us apart again. If that means I have to be, be, mundane then so be it. I’ll deal with showering, and paying for petrol, and letting my hair grow at the rate my form wants it to and not with the snap of my fingers,_ even though _it makes me uncomfortable”._

With this admission, Crowley leaned forward and reached for the mug, presumably filled with top shelf whiskey, and swallowed it down. This time, once empty, it remained so.

Aziraphale took in what Crowley had said, and, when he thought about it, he supposed he _had_ been rather…cavalier with his usage of celestial magic as of late. In the first weeks after the Apocalwhoops they had both been looking over their shoulders, tense, and waiting for their ruse to be discovered and for the legions of Heaven and Hell to come and drag them away to face the destruction. Again.

When retribution did not arrive on either of their doorsteps Aziraphale rather consciously decided that he was well overdue a little “fun” and that it was high time he stop looking over his shoulder entirely. If he and Crowley had each other they would be strong enough and smart enough to handle any situation. He was aware he was not only indulging in pride but actively encouraging it.

He was balancing on a tightrope and swaying dangerously close to tipping off the edge and Falling.

Aziraphale, losing himself to bitter thoughts at times, wondered if he wouldn’t rather just go ahead and Fall if it were going to happen. But as soon as a that thought would trickle in he’d banish it, and in it’s place would root guilt and shame and reminders that even though his faith in Heaven had been spent, his Faith in Her was not. At the end of the day Aziraphale would never be able to sever himself from his Faith in Her Love and Plan.

As the whiskey settled heavily in Crowley’s stomach so too did his words in Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale felt himself cracking and crackling. His Grace, his very core shielded within this well-worn suit of human flesh and bone and sinew, warbled out a song of yearning. His Angelic “heart” whispered in Enochian all the things that he kept locked behind increasingly looser lips. His human heart just beat out an unmistakable song. Crowley was none-the-wiser to the cries of any of Aziraphale’s organs, physical or metaphysical in nature.

What Crowley was the wiser to, however, was obviously the fact that his Angelic counterpart was making every attempt to distract him from the unpleasantness of the topic at hand. Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s entire body seemed to sag. He was obviously hurt by this interaction, and that was not something Aziraphale could abide. He didn’t want to be the one causing Crowley to look so self-conscious and disappointed, not anymore.

Aziraphale swayed a bit more on the tightrope at the realization.

“ _Angel_ ”.

That was all Crowley said. It was all he was going to say, and _that_ Aziraphale could sense with certainty.

Sighing with his whole body, he tried to find the words he needed to have Crowley understand him. It’s all the Demon ever seemed to want: to understand and be understood.

“ _My dear fellow, I didn’t realize my actions were affecting you so. I am sorry for worrying you, but to answer your original question…I have been putting myself at risk, as you say, because we are as close to free as we have ever been. I’ve never_ not _thought about what I use my powers for, you know. It has been nice to not think about the repercussions or to find reasons, however flimsy, to justify their use_ ”.

Aziraphale touched a light hand to Crowley’s shoulder and turned the Demon toward him before tapping his temple, indicating his wish for Crowley to remove the glasses.

He saw Crowley swallow, his throat bobbing, before he lifted his hand and removed his glasses. His sclera were fully yellow, indicating just how distressed the conversation was making him. Even so, Aziraphale smiled at the sight.

“ _There, that’s better. Your have such nice eyes. I wish that you’d let me see them more often_ ”.

His hand was still pressed to Crowley’s arm. He slid his palm down the length of it before letting it rest on a bare and bony wrist, pale and damp with nervous perspiration. Aziraphale’s hot skin cooled immediately at the touch, as if Crowley were sucking all the heat out of him from the one point of contact. He rubbed softly at the small protrusion at the joint, hoping to see Crowley’s throat jump as it had before.

It did.

Aziraphale was _thrilled_.

This was uncharted territory for the both of them. While their eyes may linger, especially when they’ve had their fill of drink and food, their touches never have. Even before acknowledging his own feelings, Aziraphale knew the danger and risk of Crowley’s exposed skin. He’s a Demon, after all.

Even though he was of Angelic stock, the Ineffable Plan surely meant for him to Fall, which means that She had designed him to be tempting, in the very literal sense of the word. Crowley usually also just increased his levels of appeal by keeping with the fashion trends of the time*, if not outright setting them himself. Usually. Part of their “argument” did break down to the fact that Crowley wasn’t dressing himself properly, or at least, with as much care as he has always shown in the past.

> *Aziraphale privately has thought for some time now that it wouldn’t matter what Crowley looked like, he’d still find him tempting all the same. Yes, even now he finds him appealing, daresay _attractive_ , with overgrown and unkempt hair that is sticky with marshmallow and even with the small nicks along his jaw from shaving his face the mundane way. The fact that he was sitting on Aziraphale’s sofa in his odd combination of pink sweatpants and wrinkled royal blue polo shirt notwithstanding, he still was radiant in Aziraphale’s eyes.

Crowley didn’t speak and his eyes dropped out of either nerves or discomfort, Aziraphale wasn’t sure, before shooting back up determinedly. Crowley’s other hand came down gently upon the one Aziraphale was using to stroke his bony wrist and stilled the movement.

Crowley’s eyes glowed molten as they held Aziraphale’s. He leaned in, slowly.

Aziraphale was now holding that tightrope in his mind by the tips of his fingers, ready to just let go and plummet. One-by-one he released each finger, accepting and eager for the solid ground to meet him below.

Then all at once Crowley changed his trajectory to whisper beside his ear,

“ _Let’s make a bargain. I let you see my eyes more when we’re alone and you stop being so reckless with your miracles. Deal_ ”?

Aziraphale fell but hit a net, not the ground

He was equal parts disappointed and relieved.

“ _Deal. But…_ ” Aziraphale smiled slyly before continuing,

“ _But, you_ will _let me help you with your hair, won’t you_ ”?

Crowley simply grinned in response.

**Author's Note:**

> There! Hope you enjoyed it. Formatting for Ao3 is strange? Let me know if there is any better way of doing this, thx.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and, leave a comment if you enjoyed it. Come hang out with me on Twitter or Tumblr, same username, and chat with me about the Ineffable Husbands and bully me into writing more. Until next time! - xoxo


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